Sherlock Holmes Doesn't Do Nice
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock is back from the dead and trying to be nice to Molly. It's driving her crazy!


Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Molly Hooper worked in her lab in a silence which could be characterized as somewhere between companionable and awkward. Molly had always been in love with Sherlock, as he well knew. Since his return from the dead a few month ago Sherlock had made a concerted effort to deal with Molly in a more kindly manner. Since he was never quite sure which of his remarks would cause offfense, or, worse yet, pain, he tended to keep commentary to a minimum. Molly appreciated his attempt, but missed the easy communication they once had while working together, even if it often entailed some degree of discomfort on her part. She sometime was tempted to say something to deliberately provoke him but he was being so delicate about her feelings that she told herself that she would rather bear his silence than his uncomfortable stifling of an unkind remark.

Molly was more than startled when Sherlock asked her if she wanted a coffee. "I'll get...",she started to say, but he was already out of his seat. "I know how you like it," were his last words as he walked out the door. 'What was going on?" she mused.

Sherlock was trying to be solicitous of Molly's feelings, and at the same time trying to understand his own. He was retraining himself, attempting to recognize on his own which of his remarks would earn one of John's "not good" comments. Despite the fact that, in his own opinion, he was doing quite well, every once in a while he thought he could catch a glimmer of, well, not pain, but sadness or regret on Molly's face. He missed her easy smile, the one that lit up her face. He even missed her giggle, which he had once found so annoying. It seeemed that in creating a new Sherlock Holmes he had somehow altered the old Molly Hooper. This was not what he intended, wanted or needed.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair at 221B Baker Street when John came up the stairs and through the door. He hadn't seen Sherlock in a few days, having moved in with his fiance Mary, but he was so in tune with the detective that he could tell something was off simply from his unconventional texts.

WHY ARE WOMEN INDECIPHERABLE – SH

THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE. IF YOU CAN DECIPHER THEM YOU LOSE INTEREST – JW

MOLLY DOESN'T GIGGLE ANYMORE – SH

GOOD. HER GIGGLE ANNOYED YOU – JW

NEVER – SH

? - JW

DISTRACTED/DISTURBED. NOT ANNOYED – SH

SHE LOOKS SAD SOMETIMES. DOES SHE REGRET MY RETURN? - SH

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE – JW

NOTHING – SH

I AM ON MY WAY -JW

Sherlock had his fingers steepled under his chin.

"Great! A visit to the damned mind palace when we need to talk."

"No, John. Just thinking," Sherlock said quietly.

"About...", John prompted.

"Molly has been a great help. She saved my life. I'm not totally unfeeling. I know that I've hurt and/or offended her in the past, although unintentionally. I have been very careful not to repeat this behavior. But the more I try, the more distant she seems to become."

"Ever heard of trying too hard, chum?" John was shaking his head slowly. "I"ve seen the way you have been acting around her. When was the last time you said something, not in the context of work, that was completely spontaneous?"

"I asked her if she wanted coffee."

"Her response?"

"She started to say something but I cut her off and went to get the coffee. I know the way she takes it."

"You brought her coffee? And you know how she takes it? Sherlock, we've lived together and you don't know how I take!"

"Point, John? Does she regret my return or not?"

"Maybe she's just waiting for the real Sherlock to return. You are not acting yourself around her. Of course she senses this, and probably thinks you're trying to distance yourself. Are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock practically shouted. "I was just being nice!"

"That's the problem then," John winked knowingly. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't do nice."

Things had changed for the better at the lab, and other places. John had made more trips in with Sherlock, and Holmes for some reason seemed more relaxed. The first week or so Sherlock would occasionally look to John as if for guidance, but the glances became less and less frequent, and the conversations became more and more relaxed. Sherlock would occasionally let loose an expletive directed at her, or comment almost nastily at something she had missed, but she soon learned to take this in stride once again. He was uncomfortable at commenting on her appearance, and so refrained from doing so. Molly chose the as her battlefield on which to campaign for the return of the real Sherlock Holmes.

One day she appeared in a greatly oversized jumper with a giant fluffy kitten on it. The kitten had an elaborate rhinestone collar. Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, but quickly faked a coughing spell to cover himself. The leopard six inch stilettos didn't even elicit a comment about discomfort. She went home, soaked her feet, and vowed to bring him to his knees. Various wardrobe monstrosities followed, while Sherlock assiduously avoided looking at her and John engaged in stealthy eye raising and winking. She really admired his restraint, but was determined to win this contest of wills, no matter how ridiculous she looked. It was a good thing the deceased inhabitants of her lab had long since lost any interest or taste.

The final straw was when she changed her hair.

Molly knew Sherlock would be in her lab today. He had texted her requesting some specimens and she had informed him that they would be ready in the morning. He was already in the lab when she arrived, but didn't glance up as she walked in. He had decided that it was easier to resist comment if he didn't immerse himself in the sight of any new addition to her wardrobe immediately, but rather steal sideway glances until he could fully acclimate. He took in her shoes. Good. His eyes moves stealthily upward. Jeans. Norma. Lab coat, check. He heard John approach and stiffle a giggle. Sherlock's eyes quickly dartled upward to take in the huge rainbow colored rastafarian knit hat perched on Molly's head. It completely covered her head. Not a single strand of her long auburn hair escaped its hold. Sherlock nodded almost imperciptibly. He could take this. He would miss seeing her ponytailhang down her back or over her shoulder. He would miss even more its scent as he hovered over her as she gazed into the microscope. He regretted the fact that he could no longer see the curly wisps at the nape of her neck. He had convinced himself that all these regrets would be ameliorated once she removed the attrocious hat. He would make no comment and wait her out. The lab was cool, but not cool enough to warrant suck a smothering headdress. As if on cue Molly removed the hat with a flourish worthty of a ringmaster presenting the next circus act.

Her hair was a bright, almost neon, blue!

John let out a huge guffaw and almost spilled the coffee in his hand.

Sherlock on the other hand looked like something had died. His mouth dropped open and stayed that way for what seemed the longest time. The his face started to get red. And redder. His fists clenched, and she could she him fighting for control.

"There is a certain breed of bamboon whose arses are remarkably similar to that shade. It looks better on the baboons!" Sherlock stalked out of the pathology lab as John and Molly collapsed into fits of laughter and a round of high fives.

Sherlock didn't return for quite a while. In truth, he didn't really have to return. Molly and John had examined the corpse in question, taking copious notes and photos. John left her, still amused by the whole turn of events. Molly had assured him that it was a purely temporary dye. It would take a number of washes, but it would come out without damage. It was Friday, and she planned on spending the weekend making sure it came out!

"Even if it wasn't, and all my hair fell out, it was worth it to finally coax a nasty comment out of Mr. Stoic. He sounded almost normal," she said smiling.

"Normal for Sherlock. I'm sure he deduced what you were trying to do, and the fact that he still lost it must have really disturbed him. Well, I'm off to Mary's. I'm sure I'll be hearing about this before long. And somehow it will all be my fault. See ya!" John said almost happily as he meandered to the door. He stopped. "You'll be alright?"

"Of course. I'm leaving soon myself. Have a nice weekend, John. Preferably crime and corpse free."

Ashort time later Molly tucked her atrociously colored hair under her similarly atrociously colored hat and walked out into the cold evening.

Sherlock was waiting outside St. Bart's. He took her hand before she even noticed and calmly said "Let's go get something to eat!"

He would brook no objections, and they walked a few squares over to a small restaurant they both enjoyed . They knew the staff and the menu, and settled into small booth in the corner

"Aren't you taking your hat off?" he asked rather diffidently. "Look, I'm sorry about the baboon arse comment. Your style is obviously different from mine. I had no right to inflict my taste on you. I applaud your sense of individuality." That having been said he reached across the table and whisked the hat off her head. "'Besides, I think it's growing on me."

"It's literally growing on ME, Sherlock, and you had no right to insult me like that."

"I know. Sorry. It could have been worse. You could have cut it!" He immediately regretted saying this, hoping it wouldn't put any new ideas in her head. But she smiled at him and he found himself smiling back.

Their plates arrived and the meal passed comfortably, conversation as unstrained as before his "death" He helped himself regularly to her plate. Most people had never seen Sherlock eat. When he was on a case he seemed to subsist on crisps and water. Which naturally made him ravenous at other times. He dug into his entree with gusto. It did look delicious – some sort of curried shrimp. He swatted her fork away with his without thinking, but then had the good grace to push his plate slightly in her direction. She smiled and took a small forkfull from his plate. Molly felt a fire so hot her teeth seemed to be melting. She immediately tried to drown said fire with bread, then water.

"Actually, the cream sauce on your plate would assuage it much better".

"Now I don't know whether you were being selfish or solicitous," Molly laughed.

"Both."

Sherlock insisted on seeing her home. This was not unusual before he had been away. He was often in her flat. He used it as a bolthole, and a lab, and a storage closet, and a refuge (but he could never admit that last one to her). He had his own key, although she had no idea of how he obtained it. Sometimes she would awaked to find him curled up on her couch. He required very little sleep, but if he he were closer to her flat than his while working a case he would often just let himself in. But he hadn't been doing this much lately, and she missed it.

They climbed the stairs to her flat and she stopped to fish the keys out of her purse, but he already had his in the lock.

"Tea?" she asked, not wanting him to leave.

"Of course," came his reply.

She removed her coat, and the awful hat, and started to her small kitchen to put on the kettle. As she moved away she noticed that he was standing fiddling with something in his pocket.

"But first," he spoke quickly, "I need you to help me with something. I think I, too, need a change."

He pulled out a packet of hair dye, a lovely shade of purple, close to the color of her favorite shirt of his. In fact, the one he was wearing this evening. Definitely a lovely shade for a shirt, but certainly not hair. She wanted to make light of it, but her distressed look must have betrayed her. She thought of how often she had wanted to grab a handful of the dark curls and run her fingers through them. Realizing that that was his intent, and knowing that that split second when her look betrayed how appalled she truly was, all she could do was quietly whisper, "You win. As usual."

"Now you know how I felt," he muttered, quickly closing the gap between them. Molly felt his hand moving to the back of her head as he slowly undid the elastic keeping her long ponytail in place. As her hair tumbled down her back, he burind his face in it.

"At least it still smells the same. Lovely." "Lovely" being the word Sherlock most associated with Molly. Lovely hair, lovely eyes, lovely soul, lovely Molly. His other arm went to her waist and pulled her even closer His kissed her gently, then not so gently, a kiss which she returned in kind. Her arms reached around him, and she felt another package in the pocket of his voluminous coat. Sherlock regretfully pulled away from her, reached into the pocket and pulled out another packet of hair dye, this time in a color as close to Molly's lovely (that word again!) shade as he could find.

"Please," he implored with a slight rasp in his throat. She took the packet from his hand made a move toward the bathroom. She was stopped by his hand around her wrist, pulling her gently toward her bedroom.

"There's really no hurry. We can always do it in the morning."


End file.
